kept their unseeing as trophies.
And not only to his young prey,
he had a way of blinding the elders
with a feathered sheen. He hacked out
childish tongues so they couldn’t tell,
gouged out all ears until the unspoken
secrets were not heard. The harmless
scarecrows couldn’t protect his chosen prey.
from his hovering deeds, never under
his cunning wing. They were “young friends”,
not prey. To say he damaged youths,
their vast fields of hope, to say
he tore the limbs of their spirits apart
was for him to eat wild crow.
To say he shadowed his innocent prey,
left their lives like a battlefield, was blocked.
And not only to his young prey,
he had a way of blinding the elders
with a feathered sheen. He hacked out
childish tongues so they couldn’t tell,
gouged out all ears until the unspoken
secrets were not heard. The harmless
scarecrows couldn’t protect his chosen prey.
Perched on high, he held a wide view
of the layout of the parish, could see
who was vulnerable, who wasn’t guarded,
who could be snatched up as fresh prey
right out from their open-doored homes.
of the layout of the parish, could see
who was vulnerable, who wasn’t guarded,
who could be snatched up as fresh prey
right out from their open-doored homes.
The darkest in the roost all knew,
shared his caw, caw with each other,
passed around younger carrion as new prey.
They joined in with the murder of souls.
shared his caw, caw with each other,
passed around younger carrion as new prey.
They joined in with the murder of souls.
He talked of evil, as if it lay far removed
from his hovering deeds, never under
his cunning wing. They were “young friends”,
not prey. To say he damaged youths,
their vast fields of hope, to say
he tore the limbs of their spirits apart
was for him to eat wild crow.
To say he shadowed his innocent prey,
left their lives like a battlefield, was blocked.
Now he rests in his warm nest, surrounded
by comfort, far flown from his destruction.
And as the young grew into wounded adults
with horror perched unseen on their shoulders,
his claws continued to tear them asunder.
And when they could no longer fight off
swooping memories, who was there to pray?
by comfort, far flown from his destruction.
And as the young grew into wounded adults
with horror perched unseen on their shoulders,
his claws continued to tear them asunder.
And when they could no longer fight off
swooping memories, who was there to pray?
© Denise Blake
Denise Blake’s third collection, Invocation was published by Revival Press, Limerick Writers Centre. She is a regular contributor to Sunday Miscellany RTE Radio 1. She facilitates creative writing workshops.
